


All That Is Left

by jungle_ride



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 07:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6602137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jungle_ride/pseuds/jungle_ride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU S5. Morgana isn’t killed and ends up being all Merlin has left after Arthur’s death.</p>
<p>He lives alone, usually. Tonight, however, is different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Is Left

**Author's Note:**

  * For [octopus_fool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopus_fool/gifts).



> I hope you like it =D

Deep within a forgotten forest no longer ventured in, inside a magically concealed cavern, Merlin sits with his back propped up against one of the stone walls. Despite the autumn breeze drifting into the cave, Merlin is warm enough that a blanket covering the lower half of his naked body is sufficient. This is partly due to the fire that once blazed, but is now dying, but mainly because over the course of the past years Merlin has grown hardened to the elements. On deeper reflection Merlin wonders if perhaps it has more to do with how numbed beyond all recognition he has become.

The dim glow of the dying fire is the only source of light within the cavern, and so small are its flames that Merlin can barely see his own hand, even when he holds it in front of his face. Squinting through the darkness Merlin watches with a mind cast in a dark cloud of familiar melancholy, as the once proud and blazing inferno begins to give way to soft, half-hearted crackling. He counts the seconds as the flames flicker and spit, and is left wondering how long they will last before they finally disappeared. They are becoming lethargic in their death, as though they were tired from the effort of burning. Merlin briefly wonders, with a deep bitterness that is ill-suited for the man he once was, when a dying fire had become a metaphor for his existence?

He waits until the last life of the fire is crawling across the blackened logs, like a living thing fighting to break free, before he mutters something under his breath, eyes tinted gold. A log from the pile in the corner rises up in the air seemly by itself and floats into the fire, reigniting the flames. Merlin does this more in retaliation at his own dark thoughts than the actual need for the heart. It is the smallest sign indicating that there may still be a fragment of the Merlin of Camelot left in his veins, dejected and splintered but there all the same. The idea is not as comforting as it should be, instead only further provoking the morbid beast that has latched itself to him in the wake of the loss of those he had held dearest.

As the flames grow brighter, the light in the cave also expands, revealing the dwelling. Merlin casts his eyes around his home, though there is little to see; a few pots and pans, a small storage of food, the woodpile, nothing of luxury, just the bare essentials for his new life of a solitude. He lives alone, _usually._ Tonight, however, is different. He glances across the cavern floor to the black gown and matching cloak that are scattered there, along with his own shirt and trousers. The items were ripped from bodies in a haze of mixed and fiery passions, the desperate actions of two souls scrambling and tearing for the flesh of the other. In lustful love or hate Merlin can never tell. Perhaps it is neither, perhaps it is both. Either way there is no one left who would care, or know the crime it represents.

That is the only comfort to be had, and Merlin is thankful he no longer needs to explain or justify their relationship. Merlin already knows it to be unforgivable but in the years since that fateful battle, Morgana has been in his bed more often than not. In his mind’s eye Merlin can picture the betrayal that would surely reflect in Arthur’s eyes if he was here to witness it. He prays daily that wherever Arthur’s soul may now reside, that he cannot see how far his friend has fallen. Fallen from a grace he never really owned in the first place. If he had Arthur would still be alive, they would _all_ be alive and _Morgana?_

Merlin knows the part he played in her desolation and it weighs the heaviest. So many things could have been avoided if only he’d said _something_ , back when she was still dressed in blue and green. Nevertheless she is still the architect of the destruction of Camelot, the one who tore Arthur from this side, leaving Merlin lost in a wilderness. He hates her for that, hates her with such an animosity that killing her seems the only way to alleviate it, but he can’t. Without her he has nothing.

Tilting his head Merlin lets his gaze drift down onto Morgana’s sleeping form curled up beside him. The blanket hangs loosely at her hips, exposing the soft curves of her breasts, the dip of her slender waistline and sharp angles of her shoulder blades. Her bare back is turned towards him; her dark raven hair sprayed out around her in a halo of darkness. He watches somewhat enviously as her shoulders gently rise and fall in sleep. Merlin has often wondered how it is she can find sleep so easily, when it escapes him entirely. On the rare occasions slumber does consumes him, it offers nothing but nightmares and reruns of regrets he will never recover from.

Morgan takes another deep breath, pulling him for his current thoughts. Her shoulder blades roll as she turns over, throwing her arm over his legs, hand clasping at the material of the blanket. Studying her now exposed face, Merlin is captured by the peacefulness he finds in her expression. In these quite moments he sees the woman she once was and should have become been, if only he had done something different. Or was their destiny always set?

_The darkness to your light, the hatred to your love,_ Kilgharrah had told him. Over the years Merlin has had a lot of time to reflect on those particular words of the Dragon’s. He wonders now if it works both ways. After all wasn’t he the darkness to Morgana’s light, the hatred to her love? Hadn’t it been his light which had led her to darkness in the first place? In the end they had destroyed each other.

Merlin sighs, disgruntled by his train of thoughts, and lets his body slide down, coming to rest his head back upon the make-shift pillow, an old shirt stuffed with moss. The hand Morgana had been slung on his leg slides up his body as he moves, coming to rest upon his chest. Her fingers flex against his skin as if she were trying to reach inside him and grasp his beating heat. It fills Merlin with a strange sort of solace and he lets out another deep sigh, eyes closing shut waiting for sleep to claim him.

\----------

Merlin wakes up abruptly some time later, eyelids springing open and then back closed again as the light of morning floods into his pupils. He had been awakened by a sharp hot pain in his left cheek, and it’s only moments later, when his mind clears from its sleep filled haze that he recognises the feeling and knows Morgana has slapped him. It’s not the most gentle or pleasantest of wake up calls, but considering who his current bedfellow is it doesn’t come as a shock to him.

“Ow.” he mumbles, disgruntled rubbing a hand across his cheek. “Was that really necessary?” he asks blinking his eyes open, more carefully this time. When the world finally comes back into focus, Merlin is not the least bit surprised to see Morgan perched above him, still completely naked. Her legs entrapping him between them and clutching a knife in one hand, her eyes burning with an icy fire he has come to expect.

“That was the last time.” she spits at him, her voice lacking the sharp viciousness of the past. Merlin’s lip curl upwards in as near a sneer was his face will allow. They have danced this dance before. They are, if nothing else, a predictable pair with a pattern of sadistic and masochism destruction that will last lifetimes.

“Was it?” he queries dryly and glancing indifferently at the blade in her hand.

“You don’t think I can do it?” Morgana questions, eyes narrowing as she leans down and presses the knife to his neck. Merlin reruns the pervious cycles of this scenario in his head (blood, busies, but always breathing at the end) before letting out a puff of air that only barely resembles a laugh. Pushing the blade harder into his skin she applies enough pressure that it causes a small nick and a trickle of blood to bloom from the gash.

“Don’t laugh at me.” Morgana grinds out through forcibly gritted teeth.

“Go on then.” Merlin breathes hotly, lifting his neck up so the blade cuts further into him. Morgana studies him curiously for a silent minute; searching for the bluff. Something flashes across her face, shock and sadness perhaps, when she realises there isn’t one.

“Fine.” She whispers, so quite that Merlin barley catches the word before in one quick and sudden movement she forces the blade into his skin, jerking it hard across the length of his jugular. There’s a spray of red, which hits her across the face, tarnishing her porcelain skin.

Merlin doesn’t have time to process what has happened as the wound gaps open and bright red and blood pours out from him, cascading down his neck, sticky and warm. It’s only now that he’s chocking on his own blood, gurgling and spluttering as his body tries to grasps at the oxygen he can no longer reach that Merlin feels any discomfort, or even knows that something is wrong. A part of his brain registers disbelief, unable to accept that Morgana has actually slit his throat. It won’t kill him, if he chooses not to die. Merlin can heal the injury easily enough; a surge of magic and his muscles, arties and skin would knit themselves back together. He doesn’t.

He’s too tired a tiredness that aches all the way down into the marrow of his bones and he knows without a shadow of a doubt it will never cease. He is ready for the emptiness and peacefulness of death.

Morgana’s eagle eyes are glued to his as she watches, anticipation shimmering in the blue of her irises. Merlin, despite the fact he is dying still finds the coherency to wonder what it is she’s looking for and it’s not until her mouth falls open and she takes a sharp intake of breath in obvious disbelief. That it finally dawns on Merlin that she’d been waiting for him to heal himself. Merlin wants to laugh, tries to but it just comes out as a splutter of blood.

_It’s ok._ Merlin says into Morgana’s mind, using their unique magically ability of communication. _I want this._

Morgana scowls at him, eyebrows knitted together in confused panic. _Heal yourself._ She commands with frantic desperation that echoes loud inside his mind.

_Morgana…_ Merlin begins, his thoughts failing as the enteral darkness pulls him closer. There’s a strange calm, a sense of peace that arises as he looks up at her now shimmering and blurring face. Her skin is aglow with the sunrise light, her dark hair ruffled and tossed from the night spent entangled with him. With the little strength he has left, he reaches up a hand, fingers brushing against the skin of her cheek, wiping a spot of blood away with his thumb. A single tear slides down from Morgana’s icy, blue eyes, followed by another one, and another one, until soon, a steady stream of salty tears is flowing its way down her pale cheeks.

_You really are quite beautiful you know._ He says, lips turning up lips turning up softly.

Without warning Morgana’s hands are at his throat, wrapping themselves around and holding it tightly. Merlin watches, somewhat disappointment as she leans down, her lips brushing against his as she speaks ancient words, her iris turning gold. A surge of power and magic courses through Merlin and just like that he is healed. It’s like blowing out a candle, one moment there’s a flame and the next, nothing but a wisp of smoke in the air to remind you that there once was a light.

Before Merlin can take his first unwanted breath, however, Morgana’s hands tighten around his throat squeezing the newly healed airway closed. Black spots form in the corners of his eyes. There’s a roar in his ears that builds in intensity obliterating the sounds of him gagging as her grip grows tighter. His body convulses, but he does not feel it, oblivious to the death throws, lost somewhere in the pounding in his ears, the pressure on his throat and he tears on her cheeks.

Then as quickly as it started it ends again and the pressure is lifted. As instinct guides him and he opens his throat to gasp at air, she closes the distances between them, her mouth coming to cover his. Its warm wetness is like an electric shock, and his skin is suddenly tingling, alive with an intensity he hasn’t felt in years.

_Why didn’t you let me go?_ He asks hands coming to clasp her face as he sucks in breath.

_Why haven’t you let me go?_ She replies breathing into him.

_Because…_ he breathes out

_Because…._ she sucks down his breath, then gives it back to him.

_You’re all I have left._


End file.
